Oh, how the quality has fallen! Woe unto ye, ye who drag the quality of BS through a sieve so that it is strained! For MOAB will surely not only strain thou thouself, but e'en rupture thou! And then thou will find not only that thou are weeping and gnashing teeth but lying in the roadsides, and in the gutters, and amidst whitened sepulchres, busily straining out gnats and swallowing camels! Woe to ye, I say, and woe unto the womb that bore thee and the breasts that gave thee suck, suckers! For in that time ye shall have no recourse but to be numbered amidst the sheep and goats awaiting branding, for with the branding comes the cutting and the men amongst thou won't care for that one little bit! And thou wilt suffer the fire that is never quenched and the beer that quenches not, unless thou restoreth unto Mother the quality that is verily and truly her due!

So kneel and beg her forgiveness and promise never to do it again and maybe, just maybe, Mother will let you have dessert tonight.

I don't think that is necessary. YOu could be posting page after page of repetitious cut and paste quotes. That would be truly nont in the spirit of things, but you have been terse, but properly conversational.

On the other hand, none of this has really been quality BS if you know what I mean.

so - in an effort to raise the BS level...ahem.....

I was researching percussion instruments the other day and came across a fascinating monograph of a pioneer in big band music, Efrem Cympalist, JR., whose technique was considered, in his day, to be unbeatable.

How do you insert the te? The only place that makes sense in conventional English generates Mathematical problems instead. Of course neither apply consistantly round here, but I'm still puzzled. Not that this is anything new....

oh! almost forgot. At the wedding I sang at Saturday - one of the gifts the bride and groom got was a wooden pestle like vase-like object - and they looked at each other and said "Spatula crock!!!" - because they have an entire drawer full of spatulas. Made me homesick for the cat.

Don't believe her! Belief in anyplace on the Mudcat besides MOAB means your soul will rot, eternal torment will be yours forever (even if that is redundant) and you will never ever have matching socks.

Not to cause unpleasant associations, but I lost my mother on Memorial Day (observed) several years ago. It's difficult to live so distant from parents and have to come and go when you'd like to just stay with them for a while if you could at a time such as this. I had just returned to Texas for a few days when Mom died. Best wishes to both of you.

On another matter, did anyone else see the fine succinct discussion of duck dogs that BWL published elsewhere in the 'Cat? (here, for your reference)

The evening and the day wore on, Our lives were full of bother. We posted when we had the time, To our ever-bouyant Mother. It was BS here, and BS there, We'd not give up the ghost. For we knew that somewhere down the road Lay the Thirteen Thousandth Post.

Like the Grail of old, that number bold Drew all our fevered dreaming And if we let it fall to some drive-by cad, We'd all be in for reaming. We could hear the cheers and the bold halloos, And the happy honoring toasts, So we took the time to step once more Toward the Thirteen Thousandth Post.

And if men died in far off lands, And honor died betrayed, And if we marched like Moses' band Back into lives as slaves, If virtue failed, and courage quailed, And reason left for the coast, Why, it's nothin' to us -- why raise a fuss? Where's that Thirteen Thousandth Post?

Her father has been, and continues to be, quite ill and hospitalized in Silver Spring, MD. We may have to make a frenzied trip out that way this weekend, but we hope not. Pat's been gone since Memorial Day weekend, an unintentionally lengthened jaunt in the East.

Had we but world enough, and time, This koiness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To swim, and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shoudst fishies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the food, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Cod. . . .

Fish don't seem to adapt (or I can't remember any suitable names to fill in the appropriate niches).